


The Vampire Santino

by threnodyjones



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Historical, M/M, Vampires, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threnodyjones/pseuds/threnodyjones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The vampire Santino.  This story is heavily based upon the novel The Vampire Lestat. The story is designed to fit as an expansion of pages 339-341 of the Ballentine paperback edition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vampire Santino

A cooling breeze wafted its way across my cheek and it made me pause as I sought to prolong the delicious feeling.

The weather had been stifling every night since I arrived and this night was no exception. I was beginning to understand why the natives of this city preferred robes with good ventilation. My body didn't seem to be caring it was vampiric. While I wasn't sweating, I was decidedly uncomfortable.

I had the rest of the night to explore as I pleased. Gabrielle had once again disappeared, this time after only two nights in the new city. That had been three nights ago. There were no letters from Roget or Eleni I needed to respond to, and Augustin apparently hadn't sent a letter since May. I thought back. I had just been preparing to leave Athens when his last letter arrived.

This was my first night touring Istanbul. The night before I had gone to the outskirts of the city, beyond the ancient and crumbling wall to carve my message to Marius. It felt like the right thing to do; I told him about Gabrielle's abrupt disappearances. Asked him, as always, to make himself known to me. But it was only a half-hearted attempt. I didn't want anybody around me at the moment. No company meant no disappointments. And I was actually coming to appreciate being alone. When Gabrielle appeared I was more annoyed than anything else.

Of course, I didn't really feel this way.

Istanbul, I was discovering, was a delightful city. Huge libraries I could bribe my way into stood sentry in the night, filled with ancient texts and old manuscripts from the far reaches of the Ottoman Empire. Original Greek papyri sat on the shelves next to their newer Latin translations, and even newer translations in the flowing, artistic Arabic script sat at the fore, in easy reach for any scholars who wished to read the classics.

I was in heaven.

For a time.

Eventually the library became too stifling. There were lavish stacks of new legends and myths for me to wind my way through, and tonight it didn't attract me at all. My mind invariably came back to Gabrielle. How long, I wondered, would she be away this time? Would I have to move to yet another city to attract her attention once more? I couldn't beat down the swell of loneliness which rose in me when I thought of her, though it was obvious that she did not miss my company. What kept dragging her back into the cities, I wondered? She had told me to abandon my connections with my father and brothers. They were my mortal life. But then, wasn't that exactly what I was to Gabrielle? The last remaining link to a despised mortal life which became more distant with each passing minute? How much longer before she simply stopped reappearing for a few minutes every six or eight months and left me alone as Armand had predicted all those years ago?

How much longer before I could no longer pretend I wasn't really completely alone in my nighttime existence?

It was with these thoughts running back and forth in my head that I exited the great doors of the library. I would go to my newly purchased villa in the heart of the old district, not far from the ancient Hippodrome, and sit down to reread the letters I had recently received from my brothers telling me of the birth of another niece. And then once I was finished with those letters I would go through the older letters once again, unfolding them with precious care, running my fingertips lightly over the rough texture...

I raised my head looking to the stars. They were brighter here in this part of the world. More numerous. The beauty brought tears to my eyes. For a tiny moment I wondered if Gabrielle was seeing this. Angrily I pushed the thought away and continued walking.

I moved slowly down the main avenue passing quickly into the burnt out ruins of the Forum of Constantine, past where the ancient Senate house once stood. The evening animals were moving quietly under the night sky, making their soft, private animal noises. When I concentrated I could even hear a mole making soft grunting noises as it dug its way through the earth.

I passed the outside edge of the forum, glancing in passing at the crumbled remains of what may once have been statues, but had long since disintegrated into piles of marble rubble.

It was then that I felt the _presence_.

I looked around, more cautious than I once had been about meeting other vampires. And I didn't hesitate to pull out the cross I still carried in my pocket from my travels in Greece when I saw the black glint of eyes staring at me. The creatures Gabrielle and I encountered there and had been accosted by could easily have stretched this far, and I had no desire to be attacked by one again.

And I always was one for acting.

" _Judica me, Deus, et discerne causam meam de gente non sancta: ab homine iniquo et doloro erue me._ " I spoke as I began to move closer to the form securely ensconced in the shadows, the outline of dark robes of the style common in this region barely visible. " _Misercatur tui omnipotens Deus, et dismissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vitam aeternam._ "

Other vampires, those who still feared religion, icons, the symbols of faith, always found these phrases disturbing. They would scream, hurl their own curses in return, and finally flee from our presence. And the further from Italy I treaded, the further I stepped from the Western world into the Eastern, the harder it became for me to find vampires with whom I could sit and talk.

But surely these places must once have drawn intelligent vampires. How could they not? Athens, Greece, Asia Minor, these places had once been centers of refinement and culture. Thousands of years later they still drew travelers from the farthest reaches of the continent. Yet even as I said my second sentence I felt the presence subside and fade away. A sigh of disappointment welled in me that I had only managed to find another vampire without answers.

I turned quickly to walk away, the last words dying on my lips, and as I did I heard a low, throaty laugh echo its way towards me. When I looked I saw nothing. I felt no presence. How bizarre!

I was thoroughly intrigued, and soon I was walking quickly back to the forum, searching for the source of the laughter.

Suddenly before me stood a tall, muscular vampire, his dark hair reflecting in the moonlight. His face was long and smooth, a Roman nose and strong jaw shaping his features as much as his black eyes which drew my attention. And he was speaking to me.

" _Dubito ut Deum habuisset misercordiam opperenteum mihi, et iam vitam aeternam teneo. Etsi propter sententiam bene factis_."

To say I was surprised would be understating matters.

I had never before heard Latin spoken as a language. Yes, I'd heard it recited by the priests in the monotonous tones of Church Mass, but this... My brain was reacting too slowly to translate words I'd never heard, only read. I repeated the words in my head, mastering the sounds and accent.

Without realizing it, too much time had passed and the other vampire was now staring at me as he might a feeble minded cat. With an irritated sigh his eyes flicked off to our side.

" _Latinam non loqueris_. _Causa sine spe_. Do you speak English? _Parli italiano_? _Français_? _Deutsch_?"

"I am French," I replied irritated. This vampire looked me over, studying me as one would a statue: carefully observing every sculpted surface with casual indifference to the fact that I was a living, breathing creature. I could see an undercurrent of mirth as he looked me up and down. I certainly didn't need his mocking behavior! I was about to speak, to let him know this, when his voice broke the silence between us.

"Hasn't anyone taught you to close your mind?" He brushed past me, the silk of his robes fluttering and brushing against my skin. I listened carefully, but his footfalls were nonexistent on the pebble speckled ground. "So you are the one who has been leaving those messages carved into half the walls of Europe." He turned back to me.

His words shocked me. Somehow it had never occurred to me that someone other than Marius had read my messages. Random walls had become my personal canvas, where I wrote anything to Marius: stories of my travels; how Gabrielle and I were growing apart; I would tell personal thoughts to him, as my confidant.

And it just now occurred to me that other vampires might really pay attention to these messages. This vampire might easily know everything about me, and he brought it up as though it were an everyday happening!

But this creature was unlike any vampire I had yet encountered. Certainly I had seen other vampires like Armand and Eleni in the various covens Gabrielle and I had visited, vampires with stories, vampires who were interested in life outside the rituals. But I will tell you, before this vampire I had never met one with a sense of humor. Most vampires tend to take their existence far too seriously.

This one carried himself as a king. He walked tall, stood proudly, his very presence emitting an aura of leadership and power, and his voice commanded obedience from within the lilting tones of his Italian accent--

"Santino!" My voice was much louder than I was planning and it carried beyond the circle of the forum where we stood. He smiled with amusement at my shock.

"I am," he confirmed.

This was the vampire who had taken and trained Armand, who had attacked Marius, created the Laws and rituals which covens still adhered to!

"How is little Armand doing?" Santino asked. He had turned his back on me but not before I saw the grin growing on his face. I chose not to answer him.

"Are you the coven leader here?" I asked, wondering what he thought of my messages. I moved to his side so I might look at him as he began walking.

"I am not. I became tired of that centuries ago. And the vampires in this part of the world..." His voice drifted silent, and of course I understood his meaning. "And I have no interest in your little messages to Marius. Perhaps they will draw him out again. All I ask is that you never mention my name." He glanced at me as he said this, and the threat was in the look.

I merely nodded until I realized that he had read that from my thoughts. At once I tried to shield my thoughts, only to have Santino stop and turn to me, his head shaking in disapproval.

 _Like this._

While Armand's silent voice was like a hand at my throat, causing a chill to run the length of my spine, Santino's voice was a seductive caress, something to be leaned into, a touch too brief leaving you wanting more. And as I stood there, staring blindly into Santino's eyes he began to show me step by step how to build an effective wall around my thoughts. I cannot possibly begin to describe how, it being far to subtle to put into words. But when Santino was finished I was able to stop him from reading my thoughts most of the time. He nodded finally, narrowing his eyes as I felt him test me, satisfied for the moment.

This was not the only thing I would learn from Santino, though the rest came later. We walked back to my villa and I talked away, asking question after question of him. How long had he been in this part of the world? Why did he become a coven master? Why did he decide to leave his coven? Santino answered all my questions, though most of his answers were limited to short, one sentence responses, each telling little or nothing at all. And before I realized it Santino was taking his leave to search out his resting place for the fast approaching dawn.

It never occurred to me that we would not meet the next evening. Santino, though much a loner in many ways, still enjoyed the company of someone to pass the nights through.

I was on my way to find a new victim for the evening when Santino suddenly appeared by my side with no more warning than he had given me the night before, and once again we began talking and this time I was the one answering questions as we walked through the crooked, narrow streets, the smell of rotting food, hanging clothing and people in the air. We wound our ways through the crowds, which were thick even after sunset as people finished their late-evening trading or met with less reputable people who made nighttime back alleys their offices. And it was to these people I would appear every night, to exact my toll for their business dealings.

It was because of this that I inadvertently learned my second lesson from Santino. He had patiently waited for me as I killed, not participating and not seeking out a victim for himself. It was later that I learned he did not need to feed every night. It was one thing I had never tested before; I love my nightly victims too much.

The discussions Santino and I had were neutral to the point of mundane those first two nights. I think neither of us were quite willing to trust the other at that point. Santino's evasive answers were tiresome, and I refused to give any more answers than he did. But the third night I had a letter from Augustin waiting for me, and instead of going out I stayed in to read it.

"What are you reading?" I looked up at the voice and saw Santino standing in the doorway to the room I had turned into my study.

"A letter from my brother in France," I replied.

"So you really are still in contact with your mortal family?" His voice was quiet, maybe even confused.

"Yes, why not? They will not be alive forever. And I like to hear about my nieces and nephews. I like to hear how my father is doing. Didn't you feel that way when you were first given the Dark Gift?" Santino smiled at this, my words and phrases always amusing him on some level when he heard me speak them. Dark Gift, Dark Trick, Savage Garden. I watched as he went over to where a stack of new pictures lay, and he picked them up, staring at the children.

"No. I was never close to my family. I don't know when my father died, and I gave no thought to it at all." I was surprised at the length of his answer, and then he continued speaking. "You asked if I truly believed in God and Satan. I do not know. But my reason for modeling my coven and the rituals around the Catholic Church is simple. My father was a cardinal. He was not a very devout cardinal, however he believed I should enter the priesthood and become a cleric as he was. I was not interested in the church or in my father's vision of what I should be, and I was not interested in God. However, when I became a vampire, then I saw a purpose for religion, for the closer to the Church I could model my coven, the closer to their nature my vampires could be."

When he was finished I burst out laughing. That the entire concept that the Great Laws which Armand still believed in, which vampire missionaries had taken to points far distant from Rome, were based on the spite a son had for his father and his father's beliefs was more than I could handle. As I laughed I did not consider how Santino might take my laughter; all I could think of was the absurdity. But when I finally looked back to him, he was smiling at my reaction, enjoying my laughter.

I was wondering if you laughed," he said to me. The comment stopped me.

"Of course I can laugh. Why the hell wouldn't I be able to laugh?"

His eyebrow rose and lowered as he considered how to answer the question. His face smoothed out until finally only his eyes were animated, catching the light given off by the lamps in the room and reflecting my image in their black depths. At last he shrugged, his shoulders seeming to move separately from the rest of his body.

"That was the first time you have laughed since you saw me. I was wondering if you were too sad to remember how."

"I've been alone before. Gabrielle leaves me to explore all the time."

"You are 28 years old, and for only 6 years have you been a vampire. Even mortals need companions at this age. You do not have to pretend you are not alone and that you do not feel that loneliness every minute of the night."

I stared at him, and miserably I felt the tears rise, threatening to spill. He knew. He understood how I was feeling, how it tore at me to find Gabrielle gone, knowing I would be left to drift through the night alone. It was completely unexpected to find someone who understood feelings which I refused to speak of to anyone. I stood quickly and walked away from him into the small orchard behind the house where mulberry trees grew and dozens of flowers bloomed throughout the night. Tall Jasmine shoots grew, using the walls as supports and poppy flowers whose petals were beginning to slack and fall off dotted the ground. The smell of lavender was thick in the air, the humid weather releasing and holding the scent, along with all the other scents of the garden which created a nighttime perfume I had never before encountered.

It was through this orchard I had walked for hours the night Gabrielle had disappeared once again. I became enthralled with it, observing every tiny detail, from the white poppies to the walls with an Arabic motif carved into it; beautiful patterns of leaves and flowers which represented and exalted nature and its creation by Allah. In short, the garden had become a nice place for me to visit when I needed a distraction.

I did not make this garden my daily hiding place as Gabrielle would have. The neighboring houses were too close, and the surrounding walls too short for adequate protection from unintended viewers who might witness my decent into the warm, moist earth.

But this garden pleased me.

Deliberate footfalls told me Santino followed. I turned and watched as he explored the garden, pausing finally at a patch of plants with bright orange and immature green bulbs. He knelt down in front of these strange plants, tracing the veins of the fruit and then gently plucking the bulb from the plant. I watched as he examined it as carefully as any scientist might examine a specimen.

"Do you know why these are called oriental lanterns?" I shook my head, nonplused by the question. "In the Far East -- China, Laos, Siam, such places -- they make lanterns of paper which look very similar to these plants."

'You've been to the Orient?" My attention was immediately and completely centered on him.

"Yes, I have." He was quiet as he continued to turn the lantern in his fingers. _The Orient is an incredible experience. Completely unlike everything you now know. Orientals perceive life and death in ways so completely foreign that most Europeans cannot hope to understand. It is most refreshing when I feel the need to escape the stench of Europe._

I was quiet, hoping he would continue. He turned his head, eyes looking me up and down.

 _There are cities in China twice the size of the largest in Europe and far cleaner._ Briefly I caught a tantalizing picture of such a city, of roadways immensely wide, paved neatly with stones and brick, gone before I could see more.

Santino stood, dropping the lantern. _Was the news good, from your brother?_

"Yes--"

"Ah, ah," he said. He tapped his head. I stopped, irritated that he would interrupt me, continuing only after he asked me to do so.

"Yes, the news from my brother was good. They are doing well with the money I'm sending to them." I had spoken aloud in defiance of his obvious wish that we speak mind to mind; a punishment, in my mind, for his interruption. He merely nodded as though this was knowledge of great importance. We were both silent for some time as Santino continued to walk around the garden. As he moved into one of the far corners I grew tired with it all and went back into the house.

I do not know how much time passed before I realized Santino had not reentered the house. Investigating, I found no trace of him on my property. He had vanished without word or trace.

Well, Santino did not appear the next night, nor the night after. I lingered in my rooms longer than I might otherwise have, feeling bereft that I no longer had someone to talk to during the long nights. When I decided to finally continue exploring the city, I called for my carriage to pick me up and take me to wherever I decided I wished to see. It was a week later when I saw Santino walking through the marketplaces. I watched him from afar for some time as he moved from one vendor to another.

The markets of the Middle East were not like anything I had seen before. The closest comparison would be the country fairs held in France when people would travel across the country to sell what they could, trade markers, entertain and in their best hopes gain money which they would not otherwise have had. Yet those fairs, with their brightly colored banners and rumpled performers, paled next to the spectacle that was an Arabian marketplace.

All around me, even in these nighttime streets, tents and stands were set up, some no more than lean-tos and poles with a swath of silk above. The wealthier merchants had their wares proudly displayed on tables, odds and ends crammed together into as small a space as physically possible, and they called people to them at the top of their lungs. Those who could not afford tables of their own laid out their vendibles on cloths over the dusty ground.

Every spare space was taken up, peddlers crowding together to sell fish, melons, apples, vases, books, bracelets, rings, cloths of all different varied and bright colors. Burly Turkish guards paraded up and down the streets, maintaining order with their presence, doing their best to keep the street boys from relieving some European traveler of his heavy purse.

Through these crowded areas I followed, watching as intently as I ever watched any of my mortals. He would step up to a tent, pick up an item of interest, perhaps purchasing it. He was a regular to these markets, vendors and musicians knowing his face and calling to him as he passed by in his silk robes.

At one booth I stopped, intrigued by the books offered on display. Most were written in flowing Arabic, but I was surprised to discover Latin classics hidden in the back corner, hiding amongst other undesired books, those that were broken and decrepit. I lingered here, absorbed, until the shopkeeper's preparations to close brought me to my senses once more. The street was fast becoming deserted and the tents and stands were closed or struck down.

And Santino was once again gone from my sight.

The Venetian Embassy. Thoroughly decadent affairs of state, always held with the utmost pomp and prestige for dignitaries and foreign travelers who came to pay homage to the remaining and former importance of the declining Veneto.

Always were these functions full of leaders, prime ministers and other high ranking political and social leaders. Ambassadors were always willing to greet with open arms the son of a Marquis, and so at these European embassies in the East I held a place of honor.

I often stayed well into the early hours of the morning, watching the men and women as they interacted with one another, finding this a European safe haven in the midst of a strange and intimidating land, where the days scalded and the nights offered only a modicum of relief.

For as long as Venice had traveled the seas and water ways of the world she had left her mark and her people in the lands she held in interest. And ever since the East had been opened to the West, Venice had excelled in melding them both, creating the most exotic city in Europe, and by far the most bridging embassies for Europeans seeking to touch Asia without really experiencing the full glory of the Orient.

I found them only to whet my desire for travel.

That evening when I returned to my villa after having bid the ambassador good evening I was once again thrown into contact with elusive Santino.

I was walking quickly through the old quarter, past the ancient hippodrome where countless people had died in centuries past, victims of politics and games. The night had become eerily silent, and oblivious, I was composing my next enthusiastic letter to Eleni.

Eleni and I had kept in close contact through the years, I telling her of the places I visited, describing in lengthy detail where I stayed, the people I spoke to, and she telling me of the little theatre, of Nicolas and Armand. Eleni had even confided in me her wish to leave, travel the globe herself:

> I find myself wishing to return to Greece, where I was born. More so after your latest letter, L. How you described the landscape, the smells, the people in nighttime taverns reminds me very much of my youth. My memories of childhood are only so strong, and yet, as I read I could remember the scents vividly, close my eyes and be there for a few moments.
> 
> I had once resigned myself never to leave the place where you found myself and our oldest friend, and then later to find this theatre my new home. However, the spirit of travel you inject into your letters has become a siren call for me, seductive and altogether dangerous.
> 
> I understand your fears about Our Divine Violinist and Our Oldest Friend, and I still assure you that N. has friends among us, as volatile and maddening as he can be. We will let no harm come to him. I am not his sole protector, although I gather from your letters that you trust only myself regarding our friend. I will stay and keep him safe, do not worry overly much. I would do no less for you. When this is all at a close then perhaps I shall come visit you?
> 
> As for your Greek, we shall see. I expect the next letter I receive to be composed entirely in that ancient language.
> 
> -E.

 

And so I was distracted when I felt the _presence_ , the distinctive feeling of "other", stronger than I had ever felt before. It was the only warning I knew before I was set upon by a group of vampires. These vampires were not the lost children of Paris or the mindless creatures of Greece. They were strong and focused as they spread out for their attack.

I was surrounded by these monsters. I could feel their power as they hurled their Aramaic curses at me, and I could feel them as they began to break through my hastily constructed barriers, seeking to subdue me.

I strove to defend myself, lunging towards one vampire, then another, only for them to dart away from me as I became weaker and weaker.

I fell to my knees as they began to chant, sinister whispers flowing into me, growing louder as new breaths were taken. The feeling of suffocating on dirty, impure air began to overwhelm me, and I was gasping for new air with every collective inhalation they took.

A sudden, soothing feeling settled in my head and I braced my arms on the ground, breathing freely. The chanting stopped. A preternatural stillness held sway over the night, while a loud rushing thrummed in my ears.

I felt hands on my shoulder. It was Santino. He knelt down, lifting me to my feet. I looked around us, feeling the heavy stares of the vampires who encircled us. Black eyes followed our movements, threatening us both in their silence. I stood to my full height, ignoring the lingering weakness in my limbs and walked forward, Santino by my side. We were the only moving vampires and as we strode past the ring of blood drinkers the impending feeling sparked. With blurred moves Santino turned, and before any of us could blink the left arm of one of the vampires was laying on the dusty ground. The vampire screeched, in pain, in anger, and it set off three more of the fiends, sending them hurtling towards us. Santino wielded a gleaming scimitar, releasing the head of the nearest vampire to fall to the ground as I threw the other two away from us.

He held them at bay with his sword and he chanted, incanting their Eastern curses back at them. Into the night they scattered, disappearing like the night phantoms they were, leaving the two of us alone.

Fatigue was pulling at my body as Santino cleaned his blade, and then retrieving one of the burning oil lamps that fed light into the nighttime streets, he doused the fallen body, head and arm in thick, viscous oil. Lowering the wick, he set the pile on fire. We waited until the blaze burned itself out, causing the bright orange illuminations to disappear with jarring celerity into the velvety dark blues and blacks of the night.

We moved quickly through the streets and tight alleyways, eventually taking to the roofs to circumvent any attempting to follow us. We moved quickly across the city, closer to the water's edge, where the rocky cliffs signaled the sudden and violent change from land to sea. Black murky waters abounded here, the sounds of sea birds screaming in the darkness, and waves crashing on the sharp rocks below.

In ancient times disgraced political leaders were thrown from these rocks to let the carrion eaters tear away their flesh; the threat of an improper burial causing the souls of the dead to roam unsettled through the world was enough to discourage others from contributing to actions which would lead to such a punishment. In the end it didn't surprise me to find that we were moving to where Santino resided, and that he had chosen this location, by the cliffs, to call home just as Justinian and other emperors had done ages past.

The house I was taken to was neither large nor small, an unassuming building surrounded by other unassuming buildings. With a graceful leap Santino vaulted the tall stone wall marking his property. I followed, landing in the dark garden beneath a sprawling tree.

"Why are you dressed in such fine European clothes?" Santino asked me, once we were inside the cool walls. Before us stood a tree, growing in the central room and reaching up at least two floors. The trunk disappeared through the ceiling, which had a hole with edges ragged from being enlarged to accommodate the trunk. I stared dumbly at the strange sight.

"Surely you have seen a tree before."

"Of course. Simply not _inside_ the house," I responded curtly, embarrassed at having been caught so off guard.

A large painted scroll was the only decoration I could see, the curling silk canvas weighted at the top and bottom with heavy iron, darkened with age. This scroll was from China, similar, yet a far more detailed mountain village scene than the smaller ones in the Venetian embassies I had visited. Each yellowed edge was curling in on itself, causing creases and cracks to appear, adding to the essence of the picture rather than detracting from the overall painting as had occurred with the multitude of Italian and Flemish paintings I had looked upon in my journeys. The hues had faded with time, though the sure strokes were pure, this piece of ancient silk never having been a canvas to a second artist's vision.

"How old is this painting? When was it created?"

"It is from the early Ming period," I was told. Of course, this meant nothing to me.

"When was this?" I persisted.

"It was painted in the year of the Lord, 1400. What had you been engaged in this evening that would cause those vampires to attack you?" Santino's voice came as though very far away as I continued to study the painting. "You _dined_ at the Venetian Embassy?"

I turned suddenly from my musings to see a blank look of shock on Santino's face. Oh, how beautiful! That I had caused such a look to appear on a hardened coven leader's face was too great an achievement. I asked him if he would join me at the French Embassy in three nights; for the briefest of moments his eyes widened, only to narrow again as he watched me laugh myself into a fit.

The rest of the evening passed quickly for me, and I began thinking of returning to my home for the coming dawn, only to have Santino halt my thoughts as they appeared in my head.

"It is far too unsafe for you to return to your villa now." I blistered at the thought of Santino ordering me around. "If I read your thoughts, what makes you think that they will not? Staying here for a time is the only protection you are afforded at the moment. Make use of it."

I didn't return to my rooms for two nights. When I started out Santino joined me, and we walked side by side, silent, through the ancient dusty streets, and I saw for the first time the amalgamation of cultures hiding in every wall and corner of Istanbul. I felt adrift as I walked along, the sense of having no connection to anything welling up in me. It deepened with each garden I passed, every crumbling church left from the days of the Romans who had ruled here, every tenement with Turks and Arabs saying their prayers to Allah.

I heard the shiny tinkle of a child's innocent laugh, and felt grief over the realization that I would never have a little son or daughter upon whom I might bestow gifts of candies and trinkets from around the world. I would never find myself sitting at a table next to a child who was a product of my flesh and loins to teach them to read French or Latin or Greek, or to write in a pretty, flowing cursive script.

These thoughts built within me, and I was coming to understand the magnitude of what I had lost when I was given the Dark Gift. I had no legacy, no home, no future to look forward to. The entire world had suddenly become the Witch's Place for me, and my life was no longer my own as I traveled through a black world, just as these monsters which had attacked me had been trying to say. My life was now as limited as the dead whose only remembrances were charred and ragged posts of wood which decayed more with every passing season, their memories soon to turn into a story to scare misbehaving children.

The future was a horror to me, far more than ever before.

I stood, unraveling my limbs and uncurling from the position I sat in as I leaned upon one of the many stucco walls lining the gardens of Istanbul. Santino followed as I walked, matching my stride, saying nothing as I continued across the city oblivious to him and finally all that I passed; he became my shadow that evening. Perhaps he was already this to me, and I had never realized it before.

Blending into the backdrop was something Santino consciously did, for he had too much presence to go unrecognized unless he wished it so. Where he went, all eyes were drawn to him naturally, or none at all saw him. It was his choice, and when he and I walked together I noticed most people's attentions were mine for the taking. Crowds made way for us as we walked through the nighttime streets of ancient capitals; men of means would peer at us covertly, and women would stare through lowered lashes. But rarely were we approached.

I did not realize until sometime later that I missed the meetings of random strangers, seeing some new acquaintance I had just met in a coffee house where we had sat for hours discussing some trivial bit of foreign gossip. As I walked up to the door of my villa and inserted the heavy key I made a mental note to myself to find a European coffee house in the near future where I could relax and hear talk of Western Europe, which I had been sadly lacking, of late.

Well, the little demons had not come to my home. Everything was in perfect order, the way I had left it, with new letters and packages placed by hired servants in a neat pile on a side table. The final shipment of my trunks had arrived while I was away and had been unpacked, the empty cases stacked neatly under the large bed. The servants had purchased more oil for the lamps, and my bookshelves where now lined with freshly printed books purchased in Italy and Germany and Russia.

There was no sign of Gabrielle.

I shunted away that thought and sat at my new teakwood desk, seeing a letter straight away from Eleni, her bold script unmistakable. A letter from Roget also awaited me, but it was Eleni's letter which drew me. I quickly broke the seal and began to read. I was a bit dismayed to see the formal tone of her letter. (I have my suspicions that the letters I received from Eleni which were not formal were letters that no other coven member was aware of her sending.) Formality, for Eleni and most others, was but one way of lessening what was to be a hard blow for the reader.

Which meant Nicki had once again done something, and Armand had been required to discipline him.

I read quickly, detaching myself from the words, I think I told myself. It didn't work. Nicki had once again attempted to create a vampire, this time an aristocrat who had managed to escape and tell his tales before he could be stopped. When told of this, Nicolas merely laughed and laughed, and then picked up his violin and began playing in his demonic, torturous way. Meanwhile, Parisian authorities had called upon the Theatre that morning, and when they were met with no answer (naturally) at either the box office or Armand's place of residence, they proceeded to break inside. It was sheer luck that no one had been discovered.

Armand was furious. He had thrown Nicki into a coffin and buried it in the depths below the stage for 2 days and nights before Nicolas was finally allowed a victim, and then locked in a small cell with only a quill and paper so that he might compose more plays for the ever more popular Theatre troupe.

Mortals had now been hired for the daytime hours, appearing to lock down the theatre before dawn, and leaving shortly after sunset. They would protect the lair from outside invasion of any kind, and deal with any more mortal authorities who would come asking awkward questions when no one was awake to answer them. That Armand had decided this a necessary course of action spoke more about Nicki's condition than any other words Eleni could have written me.

Eleni told me in her own gentle way that the other vampires, herself included, did nothing to stop Nicki's starvation and confinement. I don't blame them. I would certainly have done worse, had I been there.

I felt the pain of my own failure with Nicki once again, the deep grief that I was the root of all his suffering. I had brought him to Paris. I had made him a vampire. I had made him realize that his dream of being a great musician would never be reality. His madness and the hellish existence he was now suffering, while I traveled the world, free to go where I might and do what I would, were my fault.

I refolded the letter, my movements as though I were underwater. Santino's eyes were on me when I glanced around the room, searching for the distraction which would remove my thoughts of Nicki and Eleni, thoughts of Armand, the little theatre to which I found my thoughts returning more and more, those happy memories.

"Your father. You said you weren't close to him. Will you tell me more about that?" How I hated asking, especially him. Never was I certain how I would be received, whether Santino would be terse or detailed. And that night I would have left his presence if I had not thought he would choose again not to return. So instead I wanted to hear his story. Whether Santino realized this in me, I am not certain. He looked at me for a mere moment before speaking, his voice filling my ears, seducing me away from my thoughts of Nicki.

For hours I listened as he spoke.

Santino's story was one of adventure and leadership. Born in 1309, he was the unacknowledged son of a Catholic cardinal and a young Roman woman who had turned to harlotry, in her early years, to keep from starving. It was no secret who Santino's father was in the taverns where he spent his childhood.

At this time, as in all times since her birth, Rome was a center of trading and traders. Merchants and travelers of all classes and ideologies flocked to the familiar places where the latest news traveling along the merchant lines could be heard.

As a result, from the earliest ages Santino heard grand tales of travels to the Orient, Russia, the Crimea and Africa from explorers hardened by sea and land travels. He was told wild tales of monsters hiding in the sea waiting to devour whole ships, fire breathing dragons that laid in wait for unsuspecting travelers to pass too close, and fantastical creatures which belonged to myth and legend, such as a race of people in the Orient who never eat or drink, but gain their nourishment by smelling flowers. Late at night his mother would come in search of him to find him drunk on wine or ale given to him as he sat transfixed by stories of African tribes and Arab harems. He would forever remember how she would collect him, berating him for drinking the liquors, as she pulled the covers over his lethargic body.

These years, Santino told me, were a blur of warm memories, the payment of the stories far outweighing darker remembrances of long, harsh hours spent working, brawls and illness. He was determined to see the world for himself, and he let this determination carry him through the miserable times which could last for months and months while the sailors were away from Rome. Not once could Santino remember his mother discouraging him.

By the age of 10 Santino had aligned himself with the merchants and sailors in the city, enthusiastically running errands and helping unload goods and merchandise when his duties at the tavern didn't hold him. As the years passed, the physical work made him into a strong man, years too early, allowing him the illusion of adulthood.

Santino's favorites were the sailors from the nearby port at the Ripetta, who always came to see him when they were in port. Stories would be traded on both sides, the night always ending with the sailors encouraging him to come to the ports for work when he was old enough.

All things considered, Santino enjoyed his youth, the years passing by with more ease than not. And recollecting, Santino was able to tell me the exact moment the gates of adulthood opened for him, and his childhood was left behind forever.

Early one spring morning, in the year Santino had turned 14, when he returned from morning purchases for the tavern, he found his mother sitting in the corner with the burly tavern keeper. Her eyes were swollen and red, tear trails marking her dusty skin. As her eyes lighted upon Santino, she began crying. Immediately Santino moved to her side, only to have her sob harder into his shirt.

"Your father has requested to see you. You must go with those two men at once." Briefly Santino's mother grasped his hand, quickly releasing it when she glanced at the stony faced men waiting for Santino. Demurely she looked away from him, and Santino would never forget the hatred he felt for those who reduced his mother to such a piteous state.

Rising, Santino looked from the men - cardinal's guards - to his mother and moved away, leaving his mother behind. The men moved towards him swiftly, paying not a glance to Santino's mother. They quickly ushered Santino out into the rank air of morning Rome, and it was with a final glance backwards that Santino caught the last words his mother was ever to say to him, a whispered 'I love you.' as he was forever dragged from her life, and settled firmly into his own.

He was taken to a spacious home located close to the largest church in Rome. As they proceeded through the iron gates he caught glimpses of the finery adorning the property; curtains of silk and lace; fine stone sculptures and reliefs; golden and silver symbols of faith could be seen through the open windows when the relieving breezes blew enough to toss aside the fabrics in billowing folds. A solid silver image of Christ in his passion graced the threshold, hanging above those who passed through the doors, a reminder of whose home this was, lest anyone chance to forget.

More guards opened the doors; guards dressed in the uniform of the French, with fleur-de-lis gracing their garments, along with sewn crosses indicating their allegiance to the protection of the Church and the Cardinal they were escorting. The inside was revealed to be more splendid than the out as he was led silently through a marble hall, the boots of the guards clicking and echoing down the hall as his own were muffled from overuse.

Pair after pair of guards were passed until finally a door was opened and he went inside alone. Before him sat his father, dressed in the fine red cloths of the cardinalship, a red cap covering elegant black hair with its silver fringes.

He was a hard man, with features schooled not in compassion, but in harsh politics. His aquiline features gave evidence to Santino that this was indeed his father. With a flick of his hand he sent his secretary bowing and scrabbling out of the room, and they were left alone. For long moments Santino withstood the Cardinal's gaze, his eyes following as the Cardinal rose and began walking around him. Finally the man and robes came to a stop in front of him.

"You summoned me?" Santino asked him. The Cardinal's eyes narrowed for a moment.

"You are already a man."

"You were expecting a boy?" Santino asked, insolently. Almost immediately he felt the hot stinging from the hand across his face.

"You will address me with proper respect." Santino did not give him the satisfaction of rubbing his smarting face as he considered his reply.

"Your Eminence has summoned me for a reason. May I know why I have been allowed into you most holy presence?" Santino carefully kept all traces of sarcasm from his voice, allowing his eyes to show the venom he felt towards his father.

The Cardinal stood just a few inches taller than Santino, and even at that young age Santino's will was equal to his father's. He boldly met a gaze designed to cow both layman and noble alike. Of all things Santino would later say of his father, it was only his strength of will he admired and was thankful he had inherited, for as he would learn and assert throughout both his mortal and immortal life, a man with a great will can rule the world.

"I have come to escort you to France, to usher you into your calling," he said, voice stern, posture absolute.

"What?" Santino had no other response.

"You will be taken to study at the Sorbonne in Paris so that you clerical duties may commence immediately. I expect you to study with rigorous attention. Your study of the Latin language will commence once I have dismissed you from this office so that you will be prepared when we arrive in France."

"I am not leaving Rome! And I will not bow to you simply because you are my father." The Cardinal once again hit Santino, hard enough this time to make him reel under the impact. His gaze went out of focus for a moment before returning to the Cardinal.

"You were created by God, for the service of God. You have been surrounded by heathens and ruffians for too long, and it is time now for this to change." He sat down behind his desk once more. "I had hoped to extricate you before you had become too entrenched in their sinful ways. Have you yet committed the sin of fornication?"

Santino felt the heat rise in him, his anger coming to a crest.

"That business is none but my own. I certainly will not tell you. Let me leave here." The Cardinal's gaze hardened as they stared at one another. With a shout in French, the guards were called, orders given. Hands latched onto Santino's arms as he was taken from the room.

The house, while grand, was small Santino noted, and was later thankful for that knowledge. He was taken to a room and locked securely inside. All his shouts and curses would not change the fact that he was not to be freed unless the Cardinal so desired. When night fell, hours later, Santino had still not been fed, nor had he been given anything to drink, and with impulsive need he decided to escape.

Santino told me that he escaped only because the Cardinal had not been expecting him to do such a thing. Scant hours before dawn Santino managed to break though the crumbling mortar surrounding his window, enough that he was able to create a hole in the small window large enough for him to squeeze through. Dropping to the ground he made his way swiftly to the gates which barred his flight and climbing over, he made his escape to freedom.

Nearby a team of hitched horses abetted him unknowingly, as he saw them. Unhitching the horses, he scattered all but one, sending them running through the streets and to the nearby Piazza S. Pietro, and as he mounted the final one he heard the alarmed calls to the guards in his father's house, calling rapidly words that Santino did not comprehend, but whose message was clear from the tone.

Through the streets he drove his mount, holding on to the horse more than the reigns. The horse was wild due to Santino's inexperience at riding, crossing one of the bridges spanning the Tevere at a speed that jarred his bones. When he reached the familiar streets he forced the horse through the side streets, winding through the dingy stench, the dirty streets until he found the familiar Via Del Ripetta. This was where he had come for years to help his sailor friends as they unloaded cargo, working odd hours not for pay, but for the opportunity to be near the ships, and the people who sailed the world.

It was a Genoese ship that Santino rushed to, a round ship, common to the Mediterranean Sea and small enough to sail her way between the banks of the Tevere to unload in the heart of Rome. The sailors were already out, making their final preparation so they could set sail at the first light. Santino moved up and down the Ripetta, searching for familiar faces.

"Donato!" One of the sailors leaned over the side of the ship, searching for the voice that had called his name.

"Eh, Santino! Why are you here? We are leaving today. There's nothing for you to do!"

"Donato! I've come for a job. You told me to come here when I was old enough. I'm here." The sailor stared down at Santino, then turned away, shouting something to the others on deck. Minutes later Donato descended the gangplank with another Santino recognized.

"Santino, you aren't old enough." They spoke in hushed whispers to each other, he and Donato, with Giu watching the exchange.

"My father has declared me a man. I am old enough." He did not plead or beg. To be considered such you had to act the part. He was a man. Donato looked at him, and Santino met his gaze strongly. "I am a man, Donato, and I must leave Rome immediately. Take me on. I work hard, you know this." The words were more for Giu than Donato, for it would be Giu making the final decision. Donato was not important enough in rank.

"Why must you leave, Santino?" spoke Giu finally.

"My father has returned to Rome to take me off to France. He believes pledging my life to the Church will absolve his guilt for his part in my birth." Giu and Donato looked at one another and then spoke in their Genoese dialect. Santino only understood the words bastard and Cardinal Stefaneschi as Donato spoke. Giu watched Santino as Donato spoke, his face reflecting nothing of his thoughts. A long pause followed once Donato finished, with Santino and Giu evaluating each other.

"The horse?" Giu asked. Santino felt his face flush and he related his escape to Giu.

Never once did Giu move from his pose with his arms folded casually, silently judging with his black eyes what Santino was saying. Giu asked Donato a final question, one that made Donato look at Santino startledly before he answered. Satisfied Giu nodded and turned his gaze back to Santino.

"You are 16 now, Santino. That means you were born in 1307. You don't know who your father is, understand? I am first mate for this voyage. We are going back to Genoa. That will get you far enough from Rome. Donato, take him and sell the horse. Then go to the meat markets and see if you can buy salt meat for him with that money. Bribe the sellers if you must. The rest of the money is yours, Santino. Tell no one you have it. Donato, you will teach him the dialect, since you are so interested in him coming with." Giu began back towards the ship. Impulsively Santino called after him.

"What if I want to stay on the ship when we reach Genoa?" Giu turned back. Santino never forgot that moment. Annoyance held the most sway in Giuliano's eyes, and yet there was the barest hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

"We will see."

I chose to stay for only a fortnight longer, the glamour of Istanbul having worn off with more haste than I would have expected. In the main, the vampires of this region were not friendly, and they continued to menace me for the rest of my stay.

The night I set out, I stood looking about my empty rooms. I had given my servants their final payment, and they had long since departed in search of other European aristocrats to service. My carriage was waiting in the darkness to take me to the ship which would bring me across the Bosporus into the heart of Asia Minor, where Gabrielle had long since disappeared.

I held little hope that she would be joining me, and I was becoming used to traveling alone, or so I told myself. As long as I found distractions to amuse myself, I didn't worry so much for my lost mother. Her wanderings normally kept her far away from most vampires who would wish her harm merely because she had no allegiance to any coven. As for other vampires, revenants like those we found together in Greece, she was more than capable of handling. And she no longer feared humans.

One evening after telling Santino about Gabrielle I had wondered aloud if she would ever return to me, if I would ever again share with her the closeness we had on that first night in Paris. I longed for that with her, missed it terribly. Santino's reply had been concise.

"I find it doubtful. She has chosen how her existence will be. She may return periodically, but it will never be as your companion or lover." I could find nothing to contradict what he said, and this only served to increase the loneliness inside me.

Santino was waiting for me when I stepped outside. We had never discussed if he would be traveling with me, and I had not expected it. Yet it seemed completely natural that he be waiting for me in the carriage, dressed in fine European clothes, that he would grasp my arm to give me more leverage as I entered.

We journeyed through dark waters, taken by a man with more greed than common sense given the danger at crossing the water in the dark. I wanted out of Europe, and this was the fastest route. I no longer wanted the old world spiritualism, the long decayed traditions and beliefs I had long since stopped believing, had never believed in, really.

Europe was a deadened hulk for me, a carcass that weighed upon my shoulders as I explored city, countryside, tel and ruin. The Orient blazed with life in a way that Europe never had, and I felt it drawing me. I was split in half with my desire to never return to the dirty, plague infested realms and yet I would always be connected because of Nicki.

Not a night passed where I didn't think about him, and wonder what was happening that evening in Paris with the little theatre and Armand and Nicki. And some nights I would withdraw completely, dwelling upon these things, upon the last words Nicki and I had shared, which were by now forever marked upon my soul.

On these nights I would lose myself for hours, hearing the sound of Nicki playing faster and louder, hearing the violent contortions of his body in the music as the intensity and violence increased. That final night in Paris had been a cacophony of anger which now replayed ad infinitum in my mind.

I began to wonder if I weren't possessed.

At the worst of times Santino would release me with a touch of his knuckles to my temple, a hand on my shoulder, drawing me back from my thoughts. I rarely told Santino what distressed me, because I didn't need to.

Our journey to Ankara was longer than necessary. Together we might leave the carriage for several nights, with instructions to meet us at a village further down the road towards our destination. Or we would linger in a village to talk with people in the inns and taverns, or to participate in some rural festival that was taking place as we passed through. When we reached Ankara there was a large packet of letters waiting for me at the European hostelry.

The rumors I had been hearing from other French, English, and Italian travelers were being confirmed by both Roget and Eleni.

In a series of letters Roget told me he had moved all of my money out of France, and into foreign banks. He had also been keeping in close contact with my father and brothers, keeping them updated with the current political news from Paris and Versailles, where aristocrats everywhere were becoming fearful of the lower classes. He told me specifically not to return to Paris. "It is not the climate for monarchists here. Any hint of allegiance or association with the aristocracy will undoubtedly lead to an excess of troubles which can be avoided by staying away from Paris and France at this time. The royal court is not looked upon favorably by the peasantry."

Eleni's letters spoke of the same things, and more:

> Audiences want to see the aristocracy made fools of. Our little play featuring a clumsy queen puppet, who is trampled mercilessly by the mindless troop of puppet soldiers whom she seeks to command, draws loud laughter and screams.
> 
> The clergy is also ripe for derision: In another little drama we have a bumptious priest come to chastise a group of dancing-girl marionettes for their indecent conduct. But alas, their dancing master, who is in fact a red-horned devil, turns the unfortunate cleric into a werewolf who ends his days kept by the laughing girls in a golden cage.
> 
> All this is the genius of Our Divine Violinist, but we must now be with him every waking moment. To force him to write we tie him to the chair. We put ink and paper in front of him. And if this fails, we make him dictate as we write down the plays.
> 
> In the streets he would accost the passers-by and tell them passionately there are horrors in this world of which they do not dream. And I assure you, if Paris were not so busy reading pamphlets that denounce Queen Marie Antoinette, he might have undone us all by now. Our Oldest Friend becomes more angry with every passing night.

Immediately upon reading this I took out fresh paper and began writing. "Please be patient with him. He was not brought easily into this life, and his earliest years will be the most difficult to overcome." Even writing this I could not help the knowledge that Nicki's behavior had only become worse in the years after I left Paris. But I continued on: "Surely he can be influenced." I looked down at the paper for long minutes after I had written that, until finally I forced my pen to continue writing, dreading as I did so. "Would I have the power to alter things if I were to return?" I stared at the words for a long time before signing my name. My hands were trembling. Then I sealed the letter and posted it at once.

Santino had watched it all. He continued to observe after I had returned and sat, trying to regain control. I didn't want to go back. I couldn't bear the thought of returning to Paris, of seeing the little theatre again. And I had no idea what I could do to help Nicki if I returned.

Finally Santino asked what had been written. When I told him, we immediately fell into an argument.

"You cannot be serious about returning!"

"If I can be of some help to Nicolas, then I can return."

"He cannot be saved. He is mad! He will not ever be sane. I have seen hundreds of vampires as he is, and I tell you he will not survive. Nicolas wants to destroy you, and if he summons you back to Paris, if you go to him, he will destroy you."

"I can't turn away from him! I've already abandoned him once, I won't do it again."

"Nicolas doesn't need you. He has an entire coven looking after him, when he can't even survive on his own."

"It isn't his fault! He was driven mad, by Armand, by me, by that damned coven. It isn't his fault."

"And it isn't yours. If you go back to Paris, you will never leave."

"I will not let Nicki claim me."

Santino looked at me, full of spite. "He already has," he spat and walked out the door.

I heard the gate rattle and clink and then there was nothing but the screams in my head shouting for dominance with Armand's cold admonitions. I never felt more alone than at that moment, and I silently screamed for Gabrielle. I needed her too much at that moment. She understood in ways that Santino could not, how I was bound to Nicki and she knew that and though she had never approved of my giving Nicki the Dark Gift, I think she also knew that it had been destined from the moment it had been given to me.

Why could Santino not see this, when Gabrielle could? I hated them both for leaving me when I so desperately needed someone to talk to, someone who knew me and who would understand when I said these things.

I missed Nicki, deeply. I longed to be able to once again sit down next to him in a coffeehouse or walk along side him through anonymous streets, listening to him rave about whatever had stoked his passion in that moment. I wanted to be able to sit back and listen to his sharp sarcasm cut through the air before I began laughing and laughing, determined to drive away his bitterness for a moment. I wanted again to have a time where home was Nicki and me and our ambitions and dreams and "our conversation".

I didn't want to be this effigy of living death.

Hours passed and finally I took my knife and went out to an abandoned, hollowed out church where I began to carve my thoughts to Marius in the plaster, between the potted holes where plants and grasses had made their home. I wrote until the dawn sent me beneath the earth and when I rose I continued as though I had never been interrupted, chiseling each word with rapid abandon as the moon moved through the sky. When I ran out of wall I moved to the crumbling outer wall marking the boundary of the church property.

More time went by, the night was half passed when I felt light hands on my shoulders and a body crouching behind mine. I continued my work single-mindedly, and on rare occasions when my hair would fall in my eyes a hand would pull it back out of my vision.

Words had ceased to have meaning as the story unfolded itself, my dilemmas with Nicki and Gabrielle and other vampires in this region, my own fears for the future. Everything _san_ s Santino, who reclined upon the top of the wall, staring at the patterns in the stars.

I paused in my purging and Santino looked down. This evening he was dressed in a more European style than Arab, forsaking his caftan for pants and a loose shirt. The dark shadow of his beard gave him an ominous quality and I saw his lips lengthen and curve as I watched, the long waves of his hair catching the wind and framing his face, sometimes obscuring the strong jaw used by sculptors and artists to epitomize manhood. The thick folds of his shirt billowed carelessly to mold one-half of the powerful body. In life Santino must have been a formidable man; in death he was more so.

"Why did you attack Marius? Why kidnap Armand?"

"That is a much longer story than a simple answer would give."

"Well then, tell me!" I demanded. Santino looked away from me, back towards the heavens.

THE VAMPIRE SANTINO

"In 1347 I was the first mate aboard a trading vessel. We had had a good season, and in September we returned to Italy from the Crimea for the winter. We set out too late due to a delay in our final port, and storms caused both deaths and a partial loss of our rations. We headed to Syracuse, and on the way I began noting that daily a greater number of the crew was falling weak or ill. The sickness did not begin until we were only a few days from Sicily. We had a rapid changeover in Syracuse, with the captain ordering us to set out for Naples with a cargo of fur.

"When we reached Naples, scant days later, half the crew was ill. Many tried to blame it on the Sicilians, for there has rarely been love between the Sicilians and Italians. I cashed out the crew's payment and as soon as I was finished I immediately set out for Rome, hoping to escape the Black Sickness.

"It was hardly to be though, for sailors in Rome had already been ill, along with others. I had been at sea for 4 years hard, and had only a few nights in port before being hired out again, if even those two or three. I had become a mate of great repute, and when it was heard I was in port and looking for work, I was quickly approached for a crew.

"I therefore had not heard of the waves of plague and death sweeping over the port cities of Europe. Rome had been affected as well, though not to the extent of Syracuse or Genoa or Naples. Quarantines had already begun appearing at the smaller towns and villages. Cities were beginning to close their gates to the ill or foreign, a practice which would become commonplace in only a few short years, but was only an abnormality as I rode past.

"I had not been to Rome for nearly a decade by this time, but for all the mutability of cities she was still much as I remembered; the facade had changed during my absence, but the substance was the same. I returned to a well loved inn where I was known by the proprietors.

"I remember taking one of the whores to my room rather than taking my pleasure there in the tavern below. I was beginning to feel feverish even then, but I probably thought it was due to wine or the crowd. I had no concept at all that I was six days from death.

"The tavern keeper's wife took care of me. She bathed my forehead with a cool cloth, fed me daily, and shaved me when the doctor came round to look at me.

"The sixth night a priest was called to my bedside. I had not known this. Had I, the priest would have arrived to an empty bed, for while my faith in the Lord had not wavered in my lifetime, I held no love for the clergy. I shunned Mass; what peace I had with God I had made myself.

"I was raving with fever and overwhelmed with pain in my neck and groin and beneath my arms, but not so incoherent that I was not able to curse and rail at the priest when I saw him. He laughed as I blasphemed and denounced him and it infuriated me, but I had no control over my limbs. I demanded he leave me. I think he asked me if I was content going to hell as I was refusing the 7th Sacrament outright. This thought, disturbing as it was to my fevered mind, did not quiet me as it might have another. Rather I spent the last of my strength flinging my body at him in the hope I might hit him. Coughs racked my body, and I heard the door of the room open and close. I fought for breath, my eyes blind as the laughter of the priest echoed in my mind.

"Enough time passed for me to know I was dying, as I lay on the ground. I was unaware when arms encircled me, pulling me upright. I believe I wondered if I weren't already dead, and my hell was to be forever trapped in the rotting corpse of my dead flesh. The pain in my neck intensified, though it was pain in a different way. I was suddenly dying faster, and yet I do not remember being surprised by this, for as you know when somebody is on their deathbed they can linger for sometime before death quickly steals in and takes removes the spirit from the body.

"I remember nothing of the remaining hours of the night. I do not even know how close to the dawning it had been. I awoke the next evening a vampire. Healthy, immortal, and surrounded by a host of others like me. Some were awake, most not.

"The early risers befriended me, pleased that they were able to talk to me, that they would be the ones to explain what I now was. And, they hoped, to influence me.

"It was easy to learn about the different factions of vampires in my city alone. One could not turn a corner without finding a new coven with a new sect following and set of ingrained beliefs; militant, peaceful, in the end it did not matter. If there was something to fight over, they fought; if we could kill for any reason, we killed. Vampire fought vampire; for food, territory, and on random occasions, conviction. As a species we had never been closer to extinction, despite our numbers, for we were close to discovery.

"The most militant vampires were those who pressed their faith, the zealots amidst the rabble. They were determined to convert or annihilate any whose faith was not shared, be it man, immortal or beast. A millennial cult had arisen a century previous, foolishly determined to fulfill some religious prophecy or another. Other covens wanted to overrun Rome, Italy, even the whole of Europe. We were split in so many thousand different directions that even the old blood drinkers were cautious when venturing out of their meager territory.

"Worst of all, one of the most violent covens in Rome had declared a war of extermination on a sister coven of the one I was a part of, which had naturally begun spilling over to ours.

"Not yet two years into my immortal life and already I was facing expiration yet again..."

"What did you do?" I asked, enthralled. Santino smiled patiently. We had taken back to my rooms earlier.

"You've read Cicero I trust?" He pronounced it in true Latin, the hard c's rolling smoothly from his tongue. I nodded, not looking away as he rifled the papers on my desk. "I did what any true Roman would have done. I formed my own gang and took over the city."

"I had two distinct advantages over the average blood drinker. I am an early riser, just as you, and from the beginning I have not feared exploiting my powers to their greatest potential. For two years I struggled, bringing others to my side through belief, protection, and, in the end, coercion. Finally it came to me: in order to form our society into a formidable whole I would need to give them an adversary which could never be defeated, yet with a goal set and attainable to make my cohorts believe they were accomplishing some useful purpose under my aegis.

"Many of the groups my coven absorbed were already structured on the hierarchical template of the Church. And I would not have been able to resist the irony of my actions to come; the Church became the path to my greatest power, while I was professing it to be our greatest nemesis.

"To that point vampires had lived with a series of rules, some spoken, some unspoken; but rules changed with the people, and they were as mutable as we are not. With another I sat down to devise what would later become known as the Great Laws, which in coming decades and centuries would be refined to the point that my power was virtually absolute.

"Of course I had those who challenged, and they were put down every time. In the beginning it was strength by numbers against the foolish who sought power by overthrowing me and debarring me from any paths to further stature. And then, later, as I sat upon my throne in the ancient Roman catacombs, recently rediscovered for use during the plague, challengers would come to be in the hopes of taking on my cloak of power. I was left to fend for myself during this time, even my most trusted confidant leaving me to deal with the would-be usurpers; in a manner, it was her own form of challenge. Everyone needed the constant reassurance that their leader was indeed the chosen one, the rightful one to conduct the dark rituals.

"What brought my eye to Venice in general, and the Vampire Marius in specific was two fold, at the very least. When one has lived long enough, one discovers that certain of history's occurrences simply happen. Of course, the rebirth of history is such a modern occurrence; one cannot keep from stumbling over historical texts and artifacts, but there have been so few historians in the vast array of cultures we have walked through, and such an overabundance of storytellers and rumor-mongerers.

"First, while I might have let Marius live the life he so chose in peaceful ignorance, his way of life had become a danger to my position. Not all of those who challenged me were contentious fledglings, easy to throw off and destroy. It was during this time that I was being subtly bearded by a powerful vampire who had gathered around himself a powerbase of some strength. While we made no outwardly hostile actions towards the other, not an opportunity was let slip for him to question my actions and motivations.

"Secondly, and by far the most important, for I could doubtless have dealt with my unsung rival should he have chosen to make heavy the issue, there stood between Marius and myself a gaping chasm of ideology. Here was found an ancient, a Child of the Millennia, who had yet to discover his own self worth as a vampire. He taught those around him not to be true to their natures, but to be human, to ignore and deny what gifts we had been given when the blood first flowed through us all. In short, he irritated me. I had spent decades teaching my proselytes to become familiar with what they were, reveling in it myself. Marius would have us suffer the guilt while partaking none of glory.

"And I was bored at the time. Marius knew secrets which might have kept my intrigue high for decades as I pieced together clues and separated chaff from wheat regarding the rumors I had been hearing since my creation.

"Young Amadeo - later Armand - was little more than a pastime for me. I had no cares either way should he have lived or died, though it was an interest in the beginning to see if he could be taught to embrace his nature rather than shying away from it as he had been under the tutorial of Marius. In the end though, he was nothing to me, for my time with the coven was drawing to a close. After more than one hundred years I had grown weary, and sought to free myself from the confines I had unwittingly created."

Santino's story went no further from there. As the nights passed pleasant distractions followed, and I continued my education of both the new cultures I was immersing myself in and the new life I had been admitted to those short years before.

Life was not thoroughly peaceful in Ankara, though. During our travels and stays Santino continued to teach me, expanding my mental abilities, in order that we might travel through the nights without encountering other vampires hostile to either of us. (On our journey from Istanbul to Ankara we were attacked one morning by a group of vampires who had recognized Santino as the infamous Roman coven leader, and thought to become famous amongst our ranks by killing him. Before he killed them, Santino used them to teach me how to breach minds normally locked to reading.)

The final assault against us by the vampires of Ankara came by means of a cowardly act of terrorism. I was returning to the villa close to dawn, far later than I normally did. I'd been caught late at some anonymous ruin built by the early Muslims as they had increased their hold on this region. When I came into viewing distance an orange glow lit the area, flickering and strong. I moved fast up the street and hiding within the dancing shadows stood three of the oriental vampires of this region. They saw me and moved closer to the flames. It was then that I realized it was my lair which had been attacked, which was burning brightly and illuminating the small quarter it was located within.

"No!" I shouted. I could vaguely hear the shouts and alarms raise up as the warnings of fire were sounded. "No!" I was enraged.

A hand and arm grabbed onto me, holding me back when I would have rushed into the flames to fight the monsters who had done this. I looked through the windows no longer decorated with cloths. The fire licked at anything it could destroy. All my letters, my notes and pictures connecting me to my mortal life, were becoming ashes. I saw nothing so small as the loss of papers and books, belongings I had accumulated, but instead the severing of all that my mortal life had been to me. I raged in the hands of my captor.

As my struggles grew more violent I turned round to face Santino, clawing and punching as I tried to free myself from his titan's grip. His hold on me strengthened incredibly. I grew desperate and flailed, connecting roughly with Santino's jaw. My arms were released and I stumbled only to be pulled forward from my feet into the glowering face of the coven master. His hands were clenched in my shirt front and collar.

"Do that again and I will remove that hand."

I didn't take the threat idly.

I also didn't stop my struggles. I fought my way free and as soon as I was released I ran towards the inferno, wanting to save anything, to preserve my past from the waves of heat already searing my skin.

"Lestat!" How ironic. The first time he spoke my name, and it was in anger.

"What!" I asked, whirling around, just as furious as he. More so; he wasn't watching his life being destroyed, helpless to prevent it. I saw the wave of anger quickly pass into irritation in his features, and then calm.

"Go to sleep!" The irritation was back.

A wave of piercing blackness swept over me before I could register what he had spoken to me. My final action before losing consciousness was to turn about and look into the fire. I could see the flames begin on my desk, see the papers curling into ash as the flames overwhelmed the reticence of parchment paper to alight. Then the flames were overtaken by black, and I passed out.

I awoke in a tomb. It was wet and moist inside, so it surely must have rained at some time during the day. The air was sweltering inside, reminding me of the Turkish baths. Santino lay beside me, still unconscious. I thought for a moment to leave, but as the thought passed through my mind Santino became animated once more, eyes opening, lungs working.

I felt him tense as he noticed I was awake. I believe it unnerved him, realizing I woke before he did. I was not upset by this.

Santino regarded me critically as he stood.

"Never do that to me again," I stated flatly. Santino did not respond, instead moving the blockade placed before the tomb door to keep unwanted visitors away from our resting place.

I returned to the burnt out husk of my villa. Nothing remained. What had not been destroyed by fire had been stolen by scavengers during the day. I refused to acknowledge the effect this had on me. And yet I could already feel myself deaden to my mortal life, becoming more than ever before a vampire. Mortals seemed a dream to me, something which I couldn't recall understanding. I forgot what it was to be human, to walk and breath and laugh as mortals did.

Santino chose to look through the ruins, searching for anything which might have been salvaged. He found nothing. I knew he wouldn't.

That was my last night in Ankara. I set out by foot down a side street, and when it ended I followed another, then another until I had left behind the city. I chose to travel unseen, staying away from the large cities where vampires roamed. I rarely spoke, finding it too exhausting, just another way in which I had clung to the mortal I no longer was, I thought.

Long nights passed as we walked. Santino was sometimes with me, just as he was sometimes not. We didn't speak, and eventually I found myself at the city gates of Damascus. I remained outside for an entire night, uncertain if I wanted to enter. Curiosity of European news won out though, and no matter how much I tried, as long as my family lived I had to know how they were. I couldn't stay away from mortals.

Damascus teemed with life; it was ingrained into every wall and scent the city had to offer. Goats wandered with aimless patterns as they were pushed and pulled by human masters, while dogs ran freely, stealing chunks of food from careless shopkeepers. Children could be found laboring in private homes after returning from laboring elsewhere.

I made my way to the European hostelry in the midst of the city, where I had waiting for me many letters from Roget, each begging me to respond as soon as I was able. I was lost as to how Roget had known I would be arriving in Damascus, and yet chose not to give it much thought. Here I also had those things which had not been in my possession in Ankara, but rather had been en route. My final collection of books had made its way, at last, from Venice, as well as several trunks of clothing I had forwarded in Greece. I had forgotten many of the things now laid out before me.

I rented rooms and hired servants immediately, dispensing away with inconsequential problems by passing them along to others. All of the necessities would be seen to, things I no longer cared for.

Within the large package of letters I had received lay a letter from Eleni, bringing me to the opinion that these letters had not been sent here, but forwarded along; by whom, why, or when did not concern me. Hers was the first letter I chose to read, plucking it out and carrying it to the richly decorated parlor which had at once become my room of choice. I hesitated before breaking the wax, and then sent everyone out.

It was long, full of her typical reassurances about the Theatre and her members. She answered my question about Nicki with her typical bluntness:

> He despises you as much as ever. When we suggest that perhaps he should go to you, he laughs and laughs. I tell you these things not to haunt you but to let you know that we do our utmost to protect this child who should never have been Born to Darkness. He is overwhelmed by his powers, dazzled and maddened by his vision. We have seen it all and its sorry finish before.

Sickened for the moment, I set her letter aside to be finished at some other time. I chose Roget's most recent letter to look at next, hoping for something which would counterbalance the emotions which had arisen in me at the knowledge of Nicki's state.

> Monsieur, I hope this letter finds you well and safe in your travels.
> 
> I write you with unpleasant news regarding the political affairs of France. Revolutionary fervor has come to grip the entire country, spreading from Paris into the smaller cities, and even the countryside. Our King has found it necessary to recognize the National Assembly, as the classes have begun to unite against him. They do not unite with each other, but instead move as a great mass, each seeking separate goals, creating chaos as they move.
> 
> As this state of affairs has come to include the French countryside as well, I have sent a messenger to your relatives in Clermont-Ferrand to see to their safety.

When finished I set aside that letter as well, determined to deal with them come the next night. As night waned, and the many hues of a yellow dawn approached I was once again alone. I sat in a furnished parlor, full of the wide spectrum of colors available to the hands of man, surrounded by artistic handiwork of most exquisite design. Opulent French settees blended with Turkish rugs, and the scent of Oriental musk rose from the corners of the room. I listened to the sound of the sheep and goat herders taking the flocks out to graze at the foot of the mountain and the plains surrounding the city in the earliest of hours, each striving for the premium grazing land in the pre-dawn minutes.

Santino never came.

Gabrielle reappeared the next evening.

I awoke that evening and set about writing my response to Roget, asking him to check on my family and to send more frequent updates on the political situation in France. I also told him I was moving on to Cairo with all due haste, instructing him to send his responses to the European hostelry there. I was becoming near desperate for more information from France. Between the letters from Roget and the stories from French and German travelers I was hearing, I was coming to realize it was only a matter of time for the monarchy. I even considered asking Santino to contact Eleni for me. For while I knew that I didn't have enough skill -- and skill was all that would be required -- I was also certain that Santino hadn't shown me half the powers he possessed. As I sat considering how to persuade him, Gabrielle appeared.

She came silently walking into my study, clothing torn and stained, one arm missing from her shirt which she undoubtedly tore off when it became shredded enough to be a nuisance. Her hair was so snarled and matted that I would later have to cut it all off. For a moment I could only stare at her, I was so startled to see her again. She wandered through the rooms, seeing the packed boxes standing by the doors, waiting for servants to carry them off.

I told her of my plans to leave for Cairo in the next few nights and she nodded. She would be coming with me.

Santino never appeared again. My nights were once again filled with Gabrielle, but it was strange not seeing Santino, seeing him sitting across from me as I read another letter from my brothers or Eleni or Roget, hearing him speak of the Orient. And I naturally wouldn't tell Gabrielle about meeting him, and she didn't ask what I had been doing the long months she had been gone.

I didn't even try looking for him. I knew he was gone. Through later years I would think about Santino, wondering if he still lived. And then I would really remember him and of course I would realize that yes, he was still haunting the world, perhaps in India, or China, or Japan. I heard no more stories of him, however even that is not surprising to me. Santino had managed to balance his life with his myth, and he had safely descended into obscurity. If he spent time with other vampires, I certainly never heard their names spoken, and I promised myself that I would never speak of my time with Santino with another.

I never forgot what he taught me. I learned to keep myself shielded to the point where it was as natural as breathing. Not even Armand could have broken through. I also learned how to shield my presence from other vampires, and those few mortals who could instantly tell I was something other than human. (I have seen those special people often in my travels, and can attest to how annoying they can be.)

And of course this chapter will never be included in my autobiography. Santino asked me never to write of him, a promise which I kept, and which I intend to keep. There is no guarantee that other vampires won't try to hunt him down were it to become widely known that Santino was still alive. My name, Armand's are already known. Marius is more than able to defend himself and Gabrielle has always been safe, shunning contact with any other vampires. But Santino always relied on his anonymity to move through the vampire ranks.

I have to wonder how long Santino watched me and followed me before he revealed himself that night in Istanbul. I don't say that he followed me from any sense of importance on my part. Merely that is how Santino was. He planned and made contingencies, doing his best to leave nothing to chance. He realized as much as I did that retribution from rogue vampires, coven members or ancients could be as close as the next hill or a turn around the corner.

He never said anything, but sometimes he would make a comment about me where it was more likely he had read it on some obscure wall rather than from my mind. But he was forever silent on where he got his information and I didn't mind. The year Santino and I were together might have been the most difficult of my life had I had to go it alone. Gabrielle was never with me, and I still held onto mortal concerns: my family, France. I depended on these things to center and focus on, to keep up my personal masquerade of the gentleman traveler, rather than the demonic monster I really was...

 _End._

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is heavily based upon the novel The Vampire Lestat. The story is designed to fit as an expansion of pages 339-341 of the Ballentine paperback edition. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> High Praise and Acknowledgment: To Calliope, for imparting a small bit of her eloquence and giving me the inspiration necessary to conceive and give birth to this creative effort. There were times as I was working and writing this opus which it seemed my fingers were being guided by something otherly.
> 
> Thanks: My thanks must go out to Christina, Beverley, and Cecilia who urged me on a year ago as I began writing this, and then again to Beverley who urged, asked, and finally cajoled me to finish after it had been languishing on my hard drive for so long. And finally to Lara, who brushed up the spelling of the multitude of languages herein. Thank you!
> 
> -1999


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